Prophetic. I needed anything I could find but I had forgotten about the conversation because I had been so caught up in solving my sorority status problem and making sure I could be popular. Then one Sunday I was out wandering around by myself, quoting T. S. Eliot out loud and thinking about death and how I would end up a dried leaf in the wind and probably in hell, if there was one, for killing Clay. The universe will not forgive such a slight, I was thinking. It will shadow me wherever I go. Who knows, maybe I’m like that man in the Li’l Abner cartoon, wherever I go, clouds of death are overhead. Everyone I love, first Bob Rosen, then Clay. Well, I might have fallen in love with him. We might have been madly in love and I could have gone up to Brown with him and met some poets. When you are dead, think no more of me from your heavenly cloud. Oh, my beloved, oh, my darling lost husband. Well, I don’t want to marry anyone as long as I live anyway. I don’t want to wash dishes and run the vacuum cleaner and have babies. I wouldn’t have a baby for all the tea in China. I couldn’t stand to do that. I wouldn’t let anyone do that to me no matter how much I liked them. Maybe I find people that are going to die so I won’t ever have to swell up like Dudley’s wife. I can’t stand to think about it. It’s so disgusting. Oh, world, I cannot hold thee close enough. If I should die, think only this of me: that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever England. I shouldn’t have come down here. The minute this semester’s over I’m going back to Vanderbilt.